


Skin Game

by escapemethods



Category: Halloween Movies - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-12
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2019-10-08 20:52:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17393519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/escapemethods/pseuds/escapemethods
Summary: In the years following his life sentence to Smith's Grove, fate further entwines Michael Myers and Jamie Lloyd.





	1. The Old House

**Author's Note:**

> This follows the events and timeline of Halloween 5: The Revenge of Michael Myers in which Rachel Carruthers is still alive-because the decision to kill her was objectively stupid-and Jamie isn't kidnapped by the Cult of Thorn or impregnated or any of that. This story departs from canon the moment Loomis and Michael finish their showdown, and everything therein is made of my own ideas. I can't be the only person disappointed in poor Jamie's fate, and I felt like I could really give her something better, as well as explore the dynamic between her and Michael introduced in 4 and 5 that ultimately feel very flat in 6.
> 
> Will contain influences from the entire Halloween franchise, including the new film, along with influences from the various Halloween novelizations and comics. Of course, there will be a heaping portion of my own ideas, too. Enjoy, and please let me know your thoughts in a review!

_I feed it raw meat_  
_so it does not hurt me._  
_It is a strange thing_  
_to nourish what could kill you_  
_in the hopes it does not kill you.  
_\- Catherine von Radics, _Mouthful of Forevers_

* * *

"Die! Die! Die, Michael!"

Each impact of wood against the Shape raveled in chain makes Jamie cringe, as if it were she who were being struck instead of her uncle. It feels like it, phantom blows akin to something an amputee would feel after losing a leg or an arm-pain that is not and should not be her own but is. That's what Michael Myers is to her-a part of her that is decayed and severed and dreadful. She sees that now, at the very least, knows enough even at the tender age of ten that something like that can't be stopped with elephant tranquilizers and a two-by-four. It  _had_  been a brilliant trap, though, one that no one besides Loomis had been privy to much to their own detriment. In time, Jamie would realize that whatever obsession Sam Loomis had with Michael Myers was something that consumed him enough to make him blind to the plight of everyone else around him and maybe, maybe, it made him no better than the monster he sought to slay.

For now, Jamie stares in horror as Loomis clutches his chest, falling over the prone body of her uncle as he croaks loud and ugly, a sound Jamie's never heard in her life. She doesn't realize her hands are over her ears until she removes them and feels her body wrack with sobs that she's been holding in for the past twenty-four hours. Seeing Max and Tina upstairs and forcing herself to crawl inside the coffin that had been on display like a macabre museum exhibit-watching the Shape peel off his mask that seemed like a second skin and cry-everything tonight had been too much.

Blue and red police lights pour into the dark room through the boarded windows and she hears the front door hitting the wall with the force of a battering ram. Before she knows it, she's in Sheriff Meeker's strong arms, tears staining his coat as he lifts her up into his arms.

"It's okay, Jamie. We've got you now. We've got you now," Meeker says. She nods, arms winding around his neck tightly as she clings on. One big hand rubs over her back, over the rough, ruined fabric of her pretty princess costume, and she uses the leverage of being in his arms to watch as Dr. Loomis is rushed away on a stretcher, leaving Michael prone on the floor, body raveled in chains and leaving his face free as officers surround him to assess the scene. Other officers storm through the home, searching for more possible victims or surviviors.

Jamie swallows thickly, staring into Michael's features.

He looks back at her.

"His eyes aren't closed," she whispers, hoarse. Meeker rubs against her back more and wraps her in a hospital issued blanket to hand her over to the paramedics on duty. They whisper more reassurances, tender and pitiful, and she can't break her gaze away from him and he from her, even as he's lifted into a stretcher and strapped down. He watches and she stares back.

"It'll be okay, Jamie. We've called your sister. She'll meet you at the hospital in an hour or two. It's okay."

She's set onto a stretcher, wrapped in the blanket, body turned toward him.

"His eyes aren't closed. He's watching me."

**|O|**

Rachel Carruthers had been stuck in a layover in Chicago when a police officer had approached her in her seat and asked her to come with him. Fearing the worst, Rachel grabs her duffle bag and coat and sluggishly follows, half-asleep but quickly wakening with the adrenaline that pumps through her veins and jump starts her heart rate. Ever since the events of last year, she has only come to expect the worst of every situation and knew that her initial instinct not to leave Jamie in Haddonfield for her parents' trip to Cleveland had been a mistake.

"What is it?" she asks when she's led outside, where the cold air bites at the exposed skin from her cropped sweater. The officer frowns, which only makes dread pang heavy in her gut. She feels nauseous and doesn't realize she's yelling until she sees the passersby staring their way. "What's happened to Jamie? What happened?"

"Jamie is in the hospital. She's in stable condition, but we need you to come with us to be with her. Sheriff Meeker asked us personally to come and find you," the officer explains. "The FBI and National Guard were deployed. The details aren't fully available yet, but it's important we're as quick as possible."

"Oh god," she says as she slides into the back of the state trooper cruiser. The door is shut behind her and she puts her face in her hands, fingers carding through her curly mane. "Oh god."

It's just like last year. It's just like last year, and she hadn't been there. To stop him, to help Jamie. To keep her safe from Michael and that goddamn fucking _lunatic_ doctor of hers.

It's a two hour drive with tension that weighs the car down heavy. The officers can't look her in the eyes and she can only stare at the road ahead, foggy as it is, illuminated by headlights. When they arrive at Haddonfield Memorial, Rachel feels like some other entity carries her with every step as she's led to Jamie's room. It's a mess of press and concerned parents and patients alike. She ducks her face from the cameras and the attention of them all until they reach the elevator.

The hallway is full of police officers and doctors and parents alike and it's pandemonium. That's the best way Rachel can describe it-chaos, disorganized and loud and screeching. She feels the steel glare of various parents lined up and down the halls-feels something like rage in the back of her throat like a scream about it because she knows innately that they blame Jamie for this. For  _him_. As if Jamie  _wanted_  the damnation of her family's fate to follow her.

When the door leading to Jamie's room is opened, she wastes no time rushing toward the girl and holding her close before she can even get a good look at her. It takes Jamie a moment to hug back but she cries out in relief, and Rachel sighs shakily, tears burning at her cheeks as she runs her fingers through matted dark hair. Jamie smells of soil and blood and dust, even clad in a hospital gown with many of her wounds clean.

"I'm so sorry, Jamie," Rachel cries. Jamie holds on tighter.

"It's okay, Rachel," Jamie whispers. Rachel withdraws from her, holding onto her shoulders as she smiles wide at the sound of her voice that had seemingly been ripped from her. It's something, even in the mess of everything that's happened. More tears fall and, when Jamie moves to wipe them, Rachel holds her tighter.

"I shouldn't have left you, Jamie," Rachel says. "I shouldn't have. None of this would've happened. The officers told me about what Dr. Loomis did. I wouldn't have let him.  _No one_  should have let him do this to you."

"They caught him, Rachel. Because of me. It's-it's okay," Jamie stammers, small fingers burying into the fabric of her sister's sweater. The smell of her perfume and shampoo and the feeling of a lipstick stain on her head from where Rachel kisses her beside her bandages-it feels like more of a relief than anything else tonight. "But Tina-Tina's dead. So is Sammy. So is Max. Everyone is dead, and  _that's_  because of me, too."

Rachel bites her lip, holding back tears as she sits on the bed beside her sister. Jamie doesn't look at her, only at the wall ahead of him, at the two-way mirror where the shades are currently drawn to hide them from view. Her hand tightens in Rachel's sweater.

"That's not because of you. That's because of him, and him alone. Not you. Do you hear me?"

"But I knew-"

Rachel cuts her off, sounding more harsh than she intends.

"No. It's not your fault, no matter what anyone tries to tell you, okay? No matter what anyone says. You're a kid. This is not on you. It's on him."

It takes a moment, but Jamie nods, staring down at the grit under her fingernails then at the floor. Her lip quivers in a tell-tale sign she's going to cry, and Rachel wraps an arm around her shoulders to hold her close before she does.

Sheriff Meeker steps into the room alongside a nurse and two other officers while Rachel holds her sister close in her arms, running her fingers through her hair soothingly until the girl's nearly asleep. Her grip tightens at the sight of him when he pulls up a chair to sit beside them, hat in his hands.

"Rachel, I'm glad you came. I'm sorry, for all of this. This is never what we intended to happen."

She sighs heavy, and feels Jamie stir in her arms.

"I know, sir," Rachel says, anger dissipated to something that lies square between dread and sadness. "It's-none of us could have predicted this. None of us. I'm just glad Jamie's safe."

The sheriff nods, stoic as he's always been, even in the wake of the death of his own daughter. A strong hand finds its way to Rachel's shoulder, then pushes through Jamie's messy fringe of dark hair. She stares at him, blinking away.

"I know. I just wanted to let you two know that Michael Myers is currently in central booking, where he's awaiting transfer under maximum security surveillance. He's not getting out, ever. We've finally caught him."

It does nothing to relieve Rachel, even though the words should.

Jamie interrupts them.

"I want to see him," she says, louder than she's been in the time Rachel's been here.

"Absolutely not," Rachel says quicker than she can think.

Jamie frowns, and looks toward the sheriff.

"Please, Mr. Meeker. I-I want to see him, one last time. Please."

Her fingers twist in Rachel's sweater sleeve, and Rachel looks at the sheriff pleadingly. Meeker's stern consternation furrows in conflict, and he exhales.

"I don't know if that's the best idea, Jamie..." Meeker says finally. Jamie sees the leeway in the statement and seems to take it.

"I want to make sure. I want to see him. I'll do anything you say," she gets quieter. "Please."

Rachel and Meeker exchange glances and, finally, Meeker stands.

"I'll give you both a ride there and home, after you've cleaned yourself up and discharged," Meeker glances at Rachel, expression unreadable. "I'll be in the hallway, whenever you're ready."

The door closes behind them. Rachel sighs as Jamie hobbles to her feet, heading to the bathroom. Rachel follows to help the girl wash the grit and blood out of her long hair, avoiding the bandages over her ears and calf. She's changed into a police issues sweatshirt and sweatpants that are comically too big, with hospital issued slides. Rachel braids her wet hair for her before she discharges her, carrying her down to Meeker's cruiser.

A five minute drive to the police station is twenty minutes with the heavy traffic from Lampkin Lane. Rachel holds Jamie in her lap in the back, where the girl stares out the window quietly, hand knotted in Rachel's sweater. Meeker opens the back door for the two of them, and they're led to the long line of holding cells behind a locked chain door.

"Here he is," Meeker says when they reach the last cell. Jamie's hand falls from Rachel's as she stares at her uncle, whose back is to her. The sight of Michael Myers, in chains and restraints, dark head of hair away from them and side profile present, is almost more disarming than seeing him in the mask.

Rachel shivers. Jamie squints at him, taking a small step closer.

"Tomorrow morning, he'll be transferred to the maximum security ward of Smith's Grove, where he'll stay until the day he dies."

"He'll never die," Jamie says.

The Shape's fist clenches at the sound of her voice but, beyond that, there is no reaction. Jamie watches her uncle for a long moment, watches him watch the wall ahead of him, then lets her gaze fall away, the image seared into her.

She looks up at Rachel, catching her hand, and remembers the weight of her uncle's hand in her own.

"Can we go home, Rachel?" she asks, finally.

Rachel nods, picking her up into her arms and leaving Michael Myers behind, where his dark gaze only breaks from the wall ahead to watch her leave.

Jamie stares back at him.


	2. Vermin

**TWO**

* * *

"Before you can kill the monster, you have to say its name." - Terry Pratchett,  _A Slip of the Keyboard: Collected Non-Fiction._

* * *

Upon hearing of the events that transpired the evening prior, Darlene and Richard Carruthers had booked the soonest flight from Cleveland to Chicago and took the cab the rest of the way to Haddonfield. Their house had become a frenzy of reporters, news trucks, and police officers alike, but they manage to dodge the worst of it on their way inside.

Rachel sits on the couch with Jamie tucked under her arm, arms wrapped around her and clad in a pair of pink pajamas. The shorts reveal her leg wrapped in a bulky cast with a bandage wrapped around her head, but otherwise she's in one piece. Darlene can't get to the two of them fast enough, waking Jamie in the process of getting her into her arms quickly. Richard sets a hand on Darlene's shoulder before embracing his family. It's hard to fit the three women into his arms but he tries anyway, Jamie's dark head sandwiched between Rachel's and Darlene's. He kisses their hairlines and sighs a breath of relief.

They're so caught up in their tearful reunion that they ignore the group of officers sitting at their dining room table adjacent to them. Sheriff Meeker watches for a long moment, exhaling wistfully at the sight. He thinks of his own daughter, the way her big head of golden hair used to fit so easily under his chin whenever he came back from long shifts, then the way her eyes stared distantly past him through the wall when he finally arrived home to find her there, dead with that gun through her chest.

He taps his knuckle against the table to announce his presence.

"Good afternoon," Meeker says cordially. Darlene sighs as the family withdraws, Jamie still against her chest.

"Sheriff," Darlene says.

Meeker offers Jamie a smile, then glances back at Darlene and Richard, expression solemn.

"I need to speak to you both alone for a moment, if that's alright?"

Darlene kisses Jamie's head once before nodding, stepping into the kitchen with Richard and Meeker. Jamie watches on for a moment, curious, before reaching for her American Girl Doll to brush her fingers through her hair. Rachel smiles sleepily down at her, head lolling back to fall asleep.

Richard looks from the living room to Meeker, eyes narrowed. Meeker braces himself for impact.

"Do you mind telling me why you used our daughter as bait?" Richard asks. Darlene shushes him, gently, and he shakes his head.

"The worst thing is that you didn't ask for our permission," Darlene continues, softer, mindful of their daughters in the next room. "We wanted him gone as much as you did, but not at this cost. Why not call the National Guard? A SWAT team? Why did you allow Jamie to enter into hat  _nutjob's_  care-"

"Mrs. Carruthers, I understand and sympathize. Believe me, Dr. Loomis is-he's something else, alright? But we did what we had to do. I understand-"

"I don't think you understand anything at all, Sheriff," Richard interrupts. "With all due respect. We understand that you lost your daughter, we get that. But you have no idea what we've been through as a family since last year. It only started with-Jamie attacking Darlene. That was only the start. This is going to take years-years of counseling-"

"I know," Meeker says, solemn, inclining his chin toward the living room where he watches Jamie brush her doll's hair. He hangs his head. "I'm sorry for that. This is never what I wanted to happen, and I'm here because I want to make this as easy as possible. Her transition, from the hospital to your home and to wherever you want her to go next. I want to make this up to you."

Meeker's earnestness earns a smile from Darlene, sad as it is.

"I'm sorry, for mentioning her like that. Jamie's just been through so, so much-I hate even thinking about it." Darlene frowns, heading to the coffee machine. "Tell you what, I'll put on a pot of coffee for all of us. Do you take yours with creamer or sugar?"

"That won't be necessary."

Darlene shakes her head. Richard pulls out a chair, lighting up a cigarette and offering Meeker one. Meeker takes one after a moment, sitting beside him.

"No, no. We insist," Darlene says, and, lower, "you really caught him."

"We wouldn't have been able to without Jamie, ma'am," Meeker's manners, wrought from years in service, accidentally peak in his midwestern drawl. He continues. "And I mean that. We appreciate everything she did tonight, as terrible as it turned out, because now we've got him. We've got the keys to every door he's locked behind and we're never opening them again. Never again."

Richard tips some of the ash from his cigarette into the ashtray on the kitchen table before pressing it between his lips once more. Sheriff Meeker takes a moment to light up his own cigarette but doesn't take a puff from it, staring out the window before returning his attention to the two parents, feeling tension build with each tap of Darlene's manicured nails against the sleek countertop and every puff of smoke that Richard exhales through flared nostrils.

Finally, Meeker breaks the silence.

"There will come a time," he says, "not now, not anytime soon - on Jamie's eighteenth birthday, she will become Michael's legal ward. Ever since the courts unsealed Laurie Strode's legal birth certificate - that fact has been very much clear. Obviously, his status as a fugitive has made that irrelevant up until now."

Darlene blinks her shock as she sets down their mugs of coffee, then sits herself. "So, what are you saying?

"What I'm saying is that she is his next of kin, until she can legally say otherwise. The Myers House, considering it was paid for outright by the Myers Family back in '47 and no one has made any move to purchase it-will go to her, if no one will. All of his records from his original incarceration belong to her," Meeker inhales, not realizing he hasn't breathed since he first started speaking. His gaze flicks to Richard's knuckles, white around the handle of his mug, then back between the two of them. "This isn't an issue you should concern yourself with, now. But I wanted to warn you before you had any surprises."

"So Jamie is tied to that bastard? No matter what we say?"

"-Only legally, Richard."

" _Only legally_." He huffs out a laugh, sardonic, then pinches the bridge of his nose with a shake of his head. Meeker pours some of the half and half into his mug, nodding in thanks to Darlene before taking a sip. It burns his throat as it goes down. "I'm just-scared for Jamie. Especially knowing that."

"I know, Richard," Meeker says. "I am, too. But I think we can find some way to make this all better. For one thing, there's a great alternative school over in Russellville, where I think Jamie would fit in perfect."

The adults continue speaking while Jamie sighs, climbing with a little struggle out of her spot on the couch beside Rachel without waking her up. With her little hands balancing herself on the coffee table, she ambles over to the window by the couch. Rachel and the Sheriff had both instructed her to stay away from it, lest any of the reporters or news stations outside get a glimpse of her face, so she's careful to peak between the blinds. The early morning casts a lavender hue over the sky, the sun barely peeking out, but she can make out some of the faces in the glow of the streetlights above. In the sea of reporters and police officers outside of their home, a lone figure behind them all, beside a telephone pole, clad in a black coat and black hat, stands staring back at her. Jamie squints but even then, she can't make out his features, as if his face were as black as the coat and hat he wears.

Jamie blinks, backs up, and he's gone. Simultaneously, she finds herself hitting a solid figure behind her. Rachel. She exhales the breath she'd held in without realizing it.

"What did I say about going near the windows?"

Jamie sighs, wrapping her arms around her sister. Rachel's fingers find their way into the bump where the braid she'd made still sits.

"I'm sorry, Rachel," she whispers, looking back up at her. "I just wanted to make sure he wasn't out there."

Rachel sighs, bending to her knees to be eye-level with her. "He's never getting out. Ever. So you don't need to worry about that, okay? I'll always protect you, from now on."

Jamie offers a small smile and nods. "Do you promise?"

Rachel holds up her pinky. "Pinky promise. And you know you can't just break those."

Jamie laughs, entwining their pinkies. Rachel cups her face, kisses her on the head, and stands to entwine their fingers.

"Come on, I'll make some breakfast. How about some French toast, huh?"

"That sounds great. Extra sugar?"

Rachel sighs with a smile, wider this time.

"Alright, sure. Now, help me set the table."

* * *

Recent budget cuts have left the halls of Smith's Grove short-staffed and barren. Charge Nurse Marion Chambers can already feel what little energy she had when she woke this morning leave her and she's only just gotten back from her half. It'd given her just enough time to eat her leftover lasagna from the night before along with her carrot sticks, hummus, and Diet Coke. The caffeine should cut it but it doesn't do much these days.

Especially not on a day like today. After spending nearly seven months awaiting trial, Michael Myers had finally been sentenced to life in Smith's Grove as everyone had anticipated he would. Unlike when he was a child, docile and drugged on so much Thorazine that it'd alarmed the rotation of nurses who double and triple-checked his chart, he'd be staying in the maximum security ward. Despite the budget cuts to general staffing and medical care, more than enough funding had been spared to ensuring Smith's Grove could compare to any other prison in the midwest with the War on Drugs that's raged across the country for years now. It makes Marion huff but it's evidently for the best, as without it, people like Michael Myers wouldn't get the care they needed.

"If he's even a man," Marion huffs under her breath, putting out her cigarette in the ashtray in the designated smoking area before heading back down the long hallway to Dr. Terrence Wynn's office, where she taps her knuckles against the door. The resident inside, a young medical student, quickly stands up and exits upon seeing her in the threshold.

"Marion," Terrence greets her warmly. She offers a small smile as she steps inside, kicking out the doorstop with her foot so it shuts behind her.

"Terrence," she says.

"Please, take a seat." She sits in the offered chair, feeling antsy. His gaze sets upon her, expression neutral before that same smile crinkles at the corners of his eyes, easy and personable. Everything about Terrence Wynn is. "How's Sam doing?"

She exhales, huffing a laugh. "Sam is as stubborn as ever. Hates that he's lost his independence and hates it even more that he can't get here by himself yet, to see the monster in captivity for himself. To ensure, as he told me, that he could lock him up himself and throw away the key."

The older man lets out a hearty chuckle.

"He sounds up to spirits, then. I knew he'd bounce back from the stroke."

"The stroke, it did get to him, Terrence, but-he's bound to make a full recovery within the next six months, luckily enough. He's just not ready to leave the house yet, without me or someone to watch him, you know. He wishes he was."

Terrence nods. "That sounds like him. But you're the best nurse I've ever met, and an even better friend. Sam and I both know that."

Marion feels her face heat up and laughs.

"Flattery will get you everywhere and I could listen to you compliment me all day," Marion says, "but that's not why I'm here. Sam actually asked me to come, to see him. I know I'm not on Michael's rotation of nurses today, but I'd like to see him. For Sam's sake."

Terrence blinks a few times, lips pressing into a thin line. "Marion… you know I have strict instructions not to allow visitors…"

"And you know this isn't a visit, Terrence. I have the clearance to see him," she shakes her head. "It's-not for me. It's for Sam."

Terrence exhales and stands, reaching for his telephone to inform the maximum security ward-located in the belly of Smith's Grove, all the way in the basement-of their arrival. He gestures toward Marion to follow him before closing and locking his office door behind him.

"I presume Sam was persistent about this as he is about everything else?" Terrence asks upon turning his key in the elevator to reach the basement. Marion nods, adjusting her lanyard on her scrubs.

"You presume just right. You know more than anyone how he is-especially about Michael Myers."

They both step in alongside each other for the elevator's descent.

"Well, he'll be locked away down here, in the dungeons, until the day he dies. Stowed away from the world, just as the man always intended. I imagine he regrets not killing him in the old house."

Marion's ears pop with the elevation change. She swallows to try and alleviate it, and then, "I'm sure. I hope, with this, he'll have some sort of closure and can try to live an actual life, with whatever's left of it."

Terrence glances at her from the side.

"I think Michael Myers will always be his white whale, Marion," he says, finally, as the elevator dings their arrival. "And I think you know that, too."

"I suppose you're right." She steps out into the red hue of the basement, so bright it's an eye-strain until she adjusts after a moment. Terrence leads the way to a wrought iron door, which he unlocks with one of his many keys. They both walk down a long, narrow path to another door, where two manned personnel stand in wait for them. A loud buzz sounds and the barred entrance slides open automatically, leading to a line of cells.

Noting the dingy surroundings, the leaking from the ceiling and the overall unclean atmosphere, Marion says nothing more, biting back any instinctive reaction against the inhumane conditions.

 _He isn't human,_  she can practically hear Sam's voice in her head, resounding and reassuring, and follows closely behind Terrence until the reach the last cell on the right.

"We keep him here. Away from the others," Terrence says. "He's made no effort to communicate with me or any of the other staff. He's made no effort to even move. He just stares at that wall. But he's still a danger, a predator lying dormant in his cage."

He pushes the bar covering the small window into his cell open, revealing the Shape sitting with his back facing the door, dark sleek hair shining in the fluorescent light of the cell and hands bound behind his back. Michael is no less foreboding in the white asylum pajamas, back broad and shoulders broader, speaking to all of his strength even from the limited view Marion is provided of him.

"Hello, Michael. You have a visitor-you may remember her. An old friend of yours, perhaps-Marion Chambers," Terrence says, pleasantly.

"Hello, Michael," Marion says, the usual steel resolve in her tone nearly gone at the sight of him. Michael doesn't even flinch. Marion remembers the long days she spent, working the night-shift rotation and looking forward to taking care of little Michael Myers because he was such an angelic boy, so well-behaved because he was so docile, so quiet. Little had the nurses in the juvenile ward known, he'd simply been lying in wait.

Terrence shuts the viewer, abruptly halting her reverie.

"He reacts to nothing," Terrence says. "It's-monstrous. But I hope to break through to him, somehow. Like his niece claims to have done, in that attic back in the old house. Maybe she's the key."

Marion's more than ready to be out of the cold, dingy basements-away from the screaming and hollering of the other patients in their cells that echo throughout the bad acoustics, away from the Boogeyman.

"Mm. You tell me more about that when I have some more coffee in my system."

Terrence chuckles, the baritone sound likewise carrying throughout the basement.

"Right this way, then."

* * *

It's been ten years.

It's been ten years, and the Shape can feel strong gusts of wind shaking the asylum straight through its foundation and imagines the sound of rain and hail pelleting against the walls like bullets. It's an old institution, around since he was a boy and likely longer. He knows the inside and outside of it very well, too, and doesn't need to look through a window to know of the thunderstorm that wracks through the county. He hasn't seen the outside in many, many days, hasn't seen the outside even longer.

Rain also means the leak in his ceiling gets worse. It doesn't affect the Shape, though-nothing does. Not the cold of his cell, or the fact that rats roam about in his cell, squealing almost louder than the other inmates in the long line of cells adjacent to his own. The Shape is more alone than he's ever been and nothing, nothing can get to him here. It doesn't bring any comfort, or anything at all-he feels nothing.

He does nothing, even when the familiar sound of keys jingling and the big, heavy door opening. Michael doesn't turn toward the sound-he doesn't react. Steel-toed boots scrape against the asphalt floor as the black-clad figure steps inside, alongside a few others dressed in white orderlies scrubs.

"Good evening, Michael," Terrence Wynn greets, warm as ever. Michael doesn't even blink, facing away from his doctor. However, the sound of a squeaking mewling, echoing throughout the cell, catches his attention more so than, though he doesn't react likewise with every other source of stimuli that he receives in such a minimal amount.

Wynn smiles wider, showing teeth viciously.

"Yes, I've brought you a gift, Michael. Some company."

Michael hears the meowing-a kitten, he knows that, remembers the big stray cat in his neighborhood that had a litter of kittens that were more attached to him than their own mother. Remembers that the sweet things, somehow such efficient predators too, had never bothered him as much as the big dogs had in the houses adjacent. Michael knows this. Wynn continues, coy.

"It's not company like your niece," his hand twitches and-now, he thinks of  _her_. Her dark sleek hair, like his own, her black eyes so big and animated like his own. Gets a good picture in his head of her, how she'd look now-seventeen. It's been ten years since they last glanced at each other, and she's the same age as Judith. As Laurie. Michael knows that, too. Knows that her hands would be soft and small, like they had when she held his hand close to hers, that his hands would fully engulf her own. Knows that she'd be small, too, smaller than her mother but so similar in her features, so similar to Judith, maybe. But nothing like either of them, nothing like  _them_.

But she has his eyes, because  _you're just like me._

"She's not your niece, but she's very sweet. I'd love to see how you react to her."

The Shape's hand twitches once more at the thought of  _her_  and sees a glimpse that takes over his entire vision-her foster mother, screaming in agony in the bathtub, Rachel's terrified face staring up at her from the bottom of the staircase as Jamie's heart raced in terror, in fright. The emotion, stronger than any rage he's ever felt, confuses the Shape. It _enrages_  the Shape.

Wynn smiles, setting the kitten to wander the small space of Michael's cell.

"I'll leave you to your own devices. You know better than to hesitate about any of your instincts here, Michael. Not that you ever have."

The door shuts. Michael glances from the wall to the kitten, who's taken to rubbing against his legs. He reaches one big, scarred hand down to touch its black and white fur after a moment, finding himself being gentle. He remembers his mother's touch in his own hair, remembers Jamie's touch so gentle on his features to wipe away the tear that fell freely down his cheek. Two memories he knows he'll never forget but doesn't quite feel enough to cherish.

The Shape feels rage, because he doesn't understand it. How the simple thought of Jamie Lloyd, his niece and his only living family member left, continues to bring such feelings these years gone by. It's not rage, or emptiness.

He watches as one of the many rats that infest his cell and likely the others in the block runs in the corner of his gaze, likely for a crumb of food left behind. The kitten, quiet and eager, sinks down and wiggles her rear to pounce. Michael watches in fascination as the cat pursues its target, though the rat quickly escapes to the small hole from which it came. The kitten stays watch for it, vigilant, and Michael's tempted to run his fingers along her fur coat again, but doesn't, simply watching as she hunts new prey in the roaches in his cell.

She likes cats. She likes dogs too, and he doesn't, but he knows now from a pang of something in his gut that she likes cats and all animals.

She likes him, too. Loves him - he's known that longer than anything else.

The Shape understands how she loves cats. He does not understand the latter.

When Wynn enters his cell ten minutes later, he finds the kitten curled up and asleep on the rough, hospital-issued cotton of Michael's blanket. Michael himself sits, staring at the wall, not having moved an inch from where he's left him.

"Maybe this prey isn't good enough of a hunt for you, Michael," Wynn says, scooping the cat up in one hand while she squeaks loudly. "I understand that. I wanted to provide you with some stimulation, but perhaps I will have to find something more sufficient for you. Better than some kitten. I suppose that isn't much of you anymore, is it?"

Michael remains silent and still.

Wynn sighs, with a smile, noting that the only thing that seems to stimulate the Shape is any mention, anything at all, of Jamie Lloyd. It's been this way for the entirety of his ten years of captivity, culminating to this point.

"Alright, alright," Wynn says. "I will leave you to sleep for the evening, Michael. You'll have to rest up for our session, tomorrow - I have a feeling we're going to make a breakthrough."

The heavy door closes loudly behind him, locking shut. The Shape has no desire to pander into Wynn's hands any further, but the man has more than one resource that will be useful to him for what he knows he needs to do, so he plays docile. He's always been good at playing docile, but that doesn't mean he's any less of a beast.

His gaze at the wall breaks once more when he hears the loud squeaking of the same rat as before-emerged from its hole in the wall where it ran, assured of its own safety. He hears the rumbling of his belly at the sight and feels the pang of hunger from not eating for days prior, and knows what he must do.

The Shape stands to pick the vermin up by its tail.

The Shape eats.

* * *

It's been ten years, and the dream ends differently, this time-not with Darlene Carruthers' lifeless body staring up at her from the bathtub, or with Rachel Carruthers in front of her vanity dead and bleeding on the floor from eleven stab wounds to her chest. It doesn't end with Michael killing her, strangling her to death and leaving her for dead in that coffin.

It ends with Michael, touching over a cat's fur. Michael, touching over the space of her palm, somehow.

It ends with-the taste of-

Jamie Lloyd-Jamie _Carruthers_  as of last year, when the name change went through almost knocks over the contents of her night table in her frenzy to get to the nearest bathroom. Half-asleep and eyes not adjusted to the dark, she sends her cat, Coco, off her side and almost onto the floor. The cat meows loudly in protest but she doesn't hear it over the sound of her own vomit into the toilet.

When she's finished, the seventeen-year-old sighs, resting her head against the porcelain of the glass and resting her cheek against the coolness of it. Upon catching her breath, she listens for the sounds of the house, hearing no one awakening to check on her. She exhales in relief, standing to reach for the sink to steady herself on her feet so she can turn the light on. When she looks into her eyes in the mirror, she sees his gaze staring back at her again in her own.

Jamie sighs, reaching for her toothbrush, and feels Coco rubbing against her ankles. The clock above the toilet reads nearly five in the morning.

She turns on the water, brushes so hard she nearly gags, and spits out the toothpaste into the sink.

It's only when she finishes washing her hands that Jamie says, "Happy Halloween, Michael," to her own reflection, and wonders if he heard it, in the same way she feels and hears him in her dreams.

She turns off the light to the bathroom to head to her room to get ready for school because Halloween is just like every other day. She's learned that among other things, thanks to therapy and counseling. It should feel like any other day now, but it doesn't. Darlene Carruthers wakes up at 5:30 on the dot to start the big breakfast of the day and Richard gets in the shower fifteen minutes after. Rachel gets in her bath shortly after that, playing music from her boombox that Darlene yells at her to turn down. Jamie gets dressed like she does any other day, too, in a sweater and jeans with her backpack slung over her shoulders. It's just as cold as any other fall day.

Yet, she knows.

After getting dressed, Jamie looks out her bedroom window and breathes out a sigh of relief when she finds no one there looking back up at her.

Somehow, in her gut, she knows she's only on borrowed time before someone does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lengthy author's note incoming, but I have a few things to say about this story and this chapter, in particular, and I didn't want to put this at the beginning of the chapter.
> 
> 1.)Upon reading the original script of Halloween 4, I discovered that Jamie was actually six-years-old-it's not stated in the movie, but that is one of the (many) incoherent things I am changing for the sake of my plot. This makes her seven now. The age difference will be relevant soon enough! :)
> 
> 2.) I will also be basing Michael's appearance off of James Jude Courtney's in Halloween (2018) because it makes the most sense to me, and because the mask is also… just so much better than anything in the so-called Dr. Loomis trilogy. Obviously, he's a bit younger here than in the new film, considering Michael is only thirty-two when Halloween 5 rolls around. Similarly, the scene with Michael and the cat toward the end of this chapter is influenced by 2018's novelization.
> 
> 3.) In light of some criticism about my treatment of Dr. Loomis in the previous chapter along with the fact that I deleted In Bloom, please read this chapter. Not every character is going to believe he's some kind of saint, and because of his treatment of both Michael as a child and Jamie thereafter, I don't either. But I definitely plan for him to have a bigger role in this story, and though this story definitely will not feature all of the elements of In Bloom, it will feature some. I want to focus more on Jamie and Michael's relationship, along with what I've heard very aptly described as the Dracula-Helsing dynamic between Dr. Loomis and Michael. Danielle Harris and Donald Pleasance's performances were my favorite parts of the sequels, which made them my absolute favorites. Because I want to write all of this properly, and focus on similar worldbuilding as I did in In Bloom, I deleted it.
> 
> And 4.) because I have started university again and a new part-time job, along with other responsibilities, I will be trying to keep myself updating at least once a month. I don't want there to be too long of a stretch between updates with this story because I do have the plot planned in my head. It's simply a matter of finding time to write it.
> 
> Please let me know what you think in a review. Thank you, all!


	3. Johnnie Walker Blue

**THREE**

* * *

"See the animal in his cage that you built  
Are you sure what side you're on?  
Better not look him too closely in the eye  
Are you sure what side of the glass you are on?  
See the safety of the life you have built  
Everything where it belongs  
Feel the hollowness inside of your heart  
And it's all right where it belongs."  
\- "Right Where it Belongs" - Nine Inch Nails

* * *

Bread pops out of the toaster as the bacon sizzles loudly in the frying pan nearby. Darlene hums along to the CD player she keeps in the kitchen window as she spreads butter over the four pieces of toast, hearing her husband busy himself behind her.

Jamie enters the kitchen, making a beeline to the cabinet where they keep Coco's food. The cat follows behind, trotting happily knowing it's her meal time. With a click of the can, she peels it open to dump her food on a dish, setting it before her. Jamie watches the cat chow down for a moment before grabbing the coffee pot to pour a mug.

Darlene frowns, glancing Jamie's way. "Trouble sleeping again?"

"I think it's because of the day, mom," Jamie says with a sigh, sitting at the table with her small hands cupped around the porcelain mug. "It's always like this, you know that. The nightmares."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

_I dreamed that my uncle was eating a rat like it was a Big Mac and I tasted every single morsel. That's what kept me up, if you want to know._

Instead, Jamie shakes her head. "Just a nightmare. I have one of my long appointments with Dr. Elrod today at eight, I think I'll talk about it with her. It was a pretty vivid one."

"Could be a side effect of the Vistrail?"

"I haven't taken those in a few days, so it's not that. Just my head."

"Time doesn't heal all wounds, sweetheart," Darlene sets a hand on Jamie's shoulder, kissing her dark head. Her fingers brush through her hair. "I'm making egg whites. Do you want some? Can't survive on coffee all day."

Jamie nods with a smile, wrapping her arms around her mother and tucking her face into her neck.

Darlene smiles, breaking away to busy herself with the skillet of bacon. Rachel enters the kitchen, hair still damp from her bath, and bends to kiss Jamie on the cheek. Jamie beams.

"Where's dad?" Rachel asks, stealing a piece of toast before sitting beside Jamie.

"He left about fifteen minutes ago to get coffee and cigarettes with Uncle Frank," Darlene explains, setting a plate of egg whites, bacon, and stewed tomatoes before Jamie. Jamie reaches for her fork, nodding in thanks before digging in. The visceral image of Michael eating the rat suddenly fills her mind's eye and she nearly spits out her juicy bite of her tomato, but swallows forcibly.

She takes a bite of an egg white and thinks more of Michael-of his bad eye in the dingy red hue of his cell, staring at the wall. Looking past it. Looking right at her as the heavy metal door opens, where a man in black awaits.

"Jamie?"

Jamie looks at Rachel, blinking away the image in her head.

Rachel continues, "I asked if you wanted to get dinner with me and Lindsey later, after class. We're getting sushi-I know it's your favorite."

Jamie shakes her head, sipping at her coffee.

"I think I'm gonna catch up for my midterms in the library. I have a few videos to watch for my ASL class."

Rachel smiles, rolling her eyes good-naturedly. "All you do is stay locked up in that library, or in your room. Always doing homework. You need to make time for yourself, to have some fun."

Jamie shrugs, picking at her breakfast with her fork.

"How can I transfer out of Haddonfield Community College this semester if I don't have good grades?"

"Making Dean's List last semester and-hell, graduating high school early isn't good enough to do that?"

Jamie bites her lip, allowing a small smile to tug at her lips.

"I know what day it is-and how you feel about it," Rachel says. Jamie feels herself go tense as her older sister continues, "but it's been ten years now, Jamie. He's been in there for ten years. He's never getting out, and you can't let him keep ruining your life."

The younger girl stands, grabbing her backpack off the floor beside her and a piece of her toast with an egg white and tomato assembled on it.

"Jamie-"

"I'm running late, anyway. You know how the traffic is," she says quickly, "I'll see you later. Love you, mom. Love you, Rachel."

Rachel stands, holding a hand out to her. Jamie moves away from her, making a beeline to the front door with Coco hot on her heels. She nudges the cat out of the way as she opens the door, grabbing her keys off the rack before opening the screen and quickly shutting it behind her.

Darlene sets her plate down beside Rachel's as Rachel sighs, sitting back in her seat.

"You know how she gets when you bring it up," Darlene admonishes, not unkindly, setting a hand on her daughter's shoulder. "But she knows you mean well. Just give her some space."

Rachel nods, exhaling once more as she pinches the bridge of her nose between her fingers.

"I know," Rachel says, "I just feel like an asshole now but-I'll just talk to her later."

"That's probably a better idea, let her cool off," Darlene holds up the coffee pot. "Want some coffee?"

"Please. I need it, especially today."

* * *

The first thing Jamie does as soon as she gets into her used car is pull out of the driveway and down the street. Knowing she's not thinking coherently, reeling from Rachel's words in the kitchen, she drives the opposite direction of Dr. Elrod's office-there's enough time to do what she has in mind anyway without cancelling the appointment, as her traffic excuse had been haphazard at best-and merely follows her own muscle memory thereafter. It's only when she parks her car that she allows herself a moment to catch her breath, in through the nose and out through the mouth, in and out, _in and out, in and out_ , like Dr. Elrod always tells her-and she finds herself clawing at the arm of her seat as she hyperventilates.

A rough hand covers hers-calloused and rough and scarred. She gulps in a breath of air, gaze panning slowly from the big hand that covers hers, up the dark blue coveralls, to look at the boogeyman himself.  _You're just like me_.

_And I'm just like you._

She screams. When she blinks, he's gone, and she's left to catch her breath again, throat raw. Quickly, she jerks her keys out of the ignition and locks the car door behind her after she slams it shut, shrugging her jacket closer to her form as she pulls her bag closer too, heading into the walkway of the cemetery as gusts of wind blow hard enough to almost move her bodily. Colored dead leafs crunch under her boots as she steps over them and she looks around, eyes darting to catch along her surroundings. A jogger running on the other side of the plots, an elderly couple carrying a big bouquet of roses. No one else. She exhales, shaking her head, and heads to the plot she knows by heart.

**HERE LIES THE BELOVED MEMORIES OUR MOTHER AND DAUGHTER, LAURIE STRODE.**

"Hi, mommy," Jamie says softly, over the gusts of wind that send her long dark hair flying into her face. She tucks it behind her ear and bends, touching over the glossy granite. She'd only been five when her mother had gone for a drive with her father and had never come back-the memories she has in comparison to her life with the Carruthers family are bleak. She remembers the ash blonde of her mother's cropped hair, remembers the way she used to laugh in the seldom occasion she did and remembers the way her eyes used to go distant whenever October rolled around.

Jamie knows why, now.

"I haven't visited you in awhile," Jamie says with a sigh. "I didn't think to bring you anything. I'm sorry. I just-I feel like anytime I think I take a step forward, I'm shoved back 'til I fall on my ass. Sorry, I know you hate cursing-I remember that about you-but I'm so tired."

She feels tears stinging at her eyes and she swallows the thick lump in her throat.

"I've been having dreams about him, again. Like it used to be. It stopped, and it started again," she says, softer now, as if afraid someone will overhear. "I-I don't know why. I feel like you're the only one who would get that besides-besides Michael. I know you never liked saying his name, but I'm learning that I have to. That's what my therapist told me."

Her head shakes, and she wipes away the tears that have begun their descent down her ruddy cheeks without her permission. Sniffling, Jamie laughs.

"I don't know what it is, mommy. And I'm scared. I'm as scared as I was when I thought he was going to kill me in that old house, and he hasn't stepped a foot outside of Smith's Grove in ten years," she says. "I-just think I carry him with me. Like a bad habit. I always have but now-it feels like it used to, and I'm terrified because no one gets it. Dr. Elrod says it's-just in my head, but I know it's not. I  _know_  it's not."

A pause as she looks around, folding her arms to hug her slight frame.

"So, no matter how many times I've made the Dean's List, no matter how many kids I tutor or mentor, no matter what-I feel like I'm always going to be the same as him. Like when I attacked mom. Is that why you never wanted me to know about him? About Judith? About all of it?" she sighs. "I wish you were here. I love Rachel and Mom and Dad but I just-Rachel gets it. But not like you would."

She exhales, standing at her full height after kissing her hand and pressing it against the worn picture at the top of Laurie's headstone, shrugging her bag over her shoulders to head away from the plot and stopping in her tracks. Remembering when she'd come here three years ago to the date, when she was on her way home from school and asked the gravekeeper where the Myers family plot could be found. She'd booked it out of there before she could look at the headstones, terrified that he was watching her, that he was digging another grave for her like he had back in the attic.

Now, she heads there like muscle memory too and doesn't stop until she sees Deborah Myers' face staring back up at her from a framed picture. She can see her mother in Deborah, the pretty blonde hair and wide smile. She bends down once more, careful not to disturb any of the wilted bouquets of flowers that decorate the plot, and reaches a hand out to touch over the dusty engraving of her name.

"You're my grandmother. I know that now. My mother never told me about you-she had no idea who you were until she was-until she was my age, actually," Jamie says softly. "I-I've done a little research about you and Uncle Michael and Aunt Judith, in the library basement. They don't have a lot of the newspapers anymore, because they wanna forget. I can't blame them, but I can't forget it. I bet you couldn't either. You lost your baby-Judith. When she was my age, too. Then you lost Michael. I bet that must've really hurt. People say all kinds of mean things to me, about being evil, about the boogeyman being my uncle. It hurts a lot, too, and it's not like it's our fault."

She feels her lip quivering when she looks over Judith's headstone, aged as it is, too. She reaches out a hand to touch but pulls back before she can make contact, feeling like the breath's been knocked out of her, somehow.

"I'm sorry. I know-what it feels like, to do what he did to you. And I'm sorry, Aunt Judith," she whispers, hanging her head. "It's not our fault that we were born into this bloodline. It's not Michael's, either. Maybe it's-maybe he can be saved. Or helped. I want to believe he can, despite all of this."

She looks over their graves for a long moment-longer than she realizes, because her vision goes all blurry from reading over their names-and she stands, exhaling softly. When she looks up, her heart jumps, barely making out the beige coat in the distance, watching her.

Jamie steels herself and then approaches.

Dr. Sam Loomis puts out his cigarette when she gets too close, stomping over the butt with his shoe.

"Good morning, Jamie," he says, sounding unsure. She offers a small smile, wary. "I wasn't expecting to see you here."

"Hi, Dr. Loomis," she says, shoulders falling from her facade of confidence. "I-I just-I was visiting my mom. And I-thought I should visit them, too. We're family. Everyone reminds me of it, every day, so why not."

Dr. Loomis takes the sight of her in-after ten years of not laying eyes on her, she's very much the same. Small, slight in stature and barely touching five feet, the same big doe eyes that spoke volumes of her innocent naivety. Little Jamie Lloyd's innocence may be gone, stolen from her by the boogeyman himself, but he wonders if any of the little girl he remembers is still there-the same little girl who'd stopped Michael Myers in his tracks and convinced him to take off his mask and reveal himself to her.

"It's very kind of you to visit," he decides. "By all means, they're not your family."

"You and I know better than that, Dr. Loomis," Jamie says, head shaking, inhaling a cold gust of air sharply as her eyes go a little wide, glancing back up at the old man, dread punching her in the gut. "Is that why you're here, Dr. Loomis? Because he's-"

Dr. Loomis shakes his head.

"Michael hasn't left the bounds of Smith's Grove in ten years, Jamie. He's locked away, behind too many locked doors to count. That's not why I'm here."

"So you've visited him?"

He exhales, and shakes his head.

"This period of my life is over, Jamie. I've tried to put this behind me, as I imagine you've tried to as well. I've retired from medicine-you were, in fact, my last patient."

Jamie huffs out a laugh, sniffling. "Some patient I was, huh?"

That gets a small chuckle from the old man, slight as it is. Jamie smiles a little, despite herself, then goes solemn.

"I-I think I should get going, Dr. Loomis. My parents would have my neck if they knew I was here, you know."

Dr. Loomis nods, keeping one hand clutched around the handle of his cane and the other in his pocket. Jamie turns away after no response beyond that, arms wrapped around herself as she heads back toward her car.

"Jamie, wait."

She looks back toward him. He looks as tense as she feels.

"Just-take care now, Jamie."

"Thank you," she says back, sincerely. "You too, Dr. Loomis-and, happy Halloween."

There's a knowing, whimsical glint in their shared gaze before she breaks it, leaving to walk back to her car. Dr. Loomis watches her before approaching the headstones to get a look at them himself.

He stares at Judith's name for a long moment before turning away himself, ambling back to his own car, knowing more than anything in the world where he belongs.

* * *

The drive to Smith's Grove takes about an hour and a half, even on the back roads. Loomis doesn't hesitate or tremble once in the entire drive, stopping only for gas before embarking on the rest of his trip. Terrence is as receptive to his presence as always-one of the few old friends he can truly say he's kept in his long life. There's been one common denominator since he started his medical profession-and it's sitting stowed away in the belly of Smith's Grove.

It's as much of a labyrinth as he remembers it-the walk down to the maximum security adult ward, and it's as dark underneath as he remembers. He can feel Michael's presence, somehow, through all of the floors and doors that separate them, swears their hearts beat the same now that he's so close to him once more.

"I've had the orderlies escort Michael to the visiting room," Terrence says when they're on the elevator, heading down. He sounds good-natured. "So a visit to the basement won't be necessary today. Maybe you won't catch a cold, today."

Loomis smiles, though it doesn't reach the old man's eyes. Terrence glances sideways at him.

"I thought you were going to retire and write those memoirs of yours, Sam," Terrence says. "Not that I'm complaining-I miss your insight, around here. But I worry about your heart, you know that. Especially after everything that happened back in '89."

"Don't worry about me, Terrence," he says. "I've avoided this, for all of these years. After I healed, I convinced myself that this was the last thing I needed. But it's what I needed the most, I think, and what I need to do now, Terrence."

"You sound so final."

Loomis chuckles.

"Blame the old age, it's made me cynical," Loomis responds, then adds, quieter, "among other things."

"Really, Sam," Terrence says. "What's brought this on? This spontaneous visit?"

The elevator gate opens. Terrence holds the door open to allow Loomis to amble out, to which he gives a nod of thanks. Terrence follows suit beside him.

"I visited Haddonfield this morning. For the first time in ten years, Terrence," Sam says, hushed and solemn. "I drove by the old house, where I had my stroke, where I captured him. I visited Judith Myers' gravesite next and I found Jamie Carruthers there, too. It stirred something in me. I don't know what drove me to visit-nostalgia, perhaps, because I lost the only purpose I think I had in life for twenty-five years. A very long time. But I wanted to get a look at him, one last time, perhaps."

Terrence reminds silent for a moment and nods. "That's understandable, Sam. Perhaps we could say this is therapeutic for you, then?"

Loomis guffaws.

"I'll agree with you, only if you agree not to psychoanalyze me in return, Terrence," Sam retorts as they approach the security personnel who guard the visiting room. "Spare me that, please."

"I guess we have a deal, then."

Loomis reaches into his holster on his waist, emptying his gun and setting it in the bin, alongside the silver flask in his pocket, his favorite lighter, and his money clip. In exchange, he's given an allotted visitor's badge to clip onto his lapel, and escorted by Terrence and two of the armed security guards into the room.

He has to pause to look at Michael. Most of his hair gone now, a blonde and silver stubble dusting over his cheeks and chin. The old burn scars near his left eye-the same glazed over eye where Laurie Strode had jabbed him so smartly with a coat hanger-match the burns over Loomis's own arms and cheek. Skin grafts could only redeem so much for the two of them, it seems, and they seem even more in symmetry with each other, like two parallel lines. The white asylum pajamas make him no less intimidating, hiding none of his broad stature and the power beneath his skin.

"You have a visitor, Michael," Terrence says in that warm tone of his. "I surely don't need to make any introductions here, do I?"

Michael doesn't look at Terrence or Loomis, simply staring ahead. Loomis exhales.

"I'll leave you to it, Sam," Terrence says, gaze flicking from his patient to his old friend. "You hit the button under there, if anything should happen-and the security guards will be in here faster than you can even blink."

"Thank you, Terrence. I'm sure it won't be long."

Terrence nods, exiting the room and leaving him and the Shape together once more.

Loomis approaches the chair adjacent to Michael, pausing a moment to look over him once more before pulling it out to sit. The metal scrapes over the cement floor, the poor acoustics of the room making the unpleasant sound echo.

Michael doesn't seem to be affected.

"It's been ten years, Michael," Loomis says, "ten years, since I helped apprehend you. And I've been told you've made no progress, no effort to communicate with anyone, in all of that time. That you've reacted to nothing."

Pause.

Loomis smiles wryly.

"Do you know who I found at your mother's grave this morning? At Judith's?" Michael's good eye twitches at his older sister's name but he remains still as a statue. Loomis takes note of it, staring unaffected into his features, tone half-taunting and half-curious of the reaction it will wring. "The little girl. Your little girl. Perhaps not so _little_  anymore-she's Judith's age, now. Cynthia's age."

That gets Michael to look at him. It's brief, but Loomis knows there's  _something_  beyond the nothing and blank in those eyes that he'd seen before, for all of those years of Michael's adolescence.

Their gaze locks for the first time in ten years. Loomis goes on, undeterred, "is she special to you, somehow? Is that why you couldn't kill her in that attic? I've always been curious."

Michael looks away, back at the wall behind him. A loud exhale escapes, but Loomis knows better than to take it as an actual response.

"You killed your sister-her aunt," Loomis continues. "You ruined her mother's life. You've ruined her life. But she still cares, somehow, doesn't she? And I think you know that, from whatever bond it is you two share."

Silence.

"I hunted for you for many years, Michael. And I caught you. I'd like to believe you'll never see the light of day again," his smirk lessens, "and for a long time, I wanted to understand you. Now, I know better-I know now that these bars and these walls won't stop you. You will never stop until your heart stops beating permanently-until every part of you is ash and bone. You and I both know that, though Terrence and your team of doctors will never understand that. You,  _Jamie_ , and I know that, I should say. And, for a long time, I wanted to believe I had moved on but, the day you decide to leave this place, to chase Jamie or any other person who happens to have the misfortune of sharing your blood-I will be there to stop you. And the authorities won't stop me from stopping your heart for good, this time."

Loomis pushes out his chair. It's only then that Michael holds his gaze, as if daring him to continue in that single stare, somehow. Loomis is the one who looks away first to call the security guards to leave.

The elevator ride upstairs goes by in a blur, Loomis' head ringing between his ears as Terrence talks about visiting him later on, when he's off his shift for the day. Loomis head rings between his ears until he gets to his truck, where he can finally open his flask and take a big sip, leaning back against the leather seat of his Bentley.

Michael's gaze stays with him until he gets reaches home, and even when he closes his eyes to nap for the afternoon.

* * *

Dr. Elrod's therapy session feels redundant for the first time, and class feels even more redundant-Jamie only attends the lectures to get the attendance credit and leave after spacing out her professors teaching for hours. By the time five rolls around, the official end to her day of classes and therapy, Jamie feels exhausted, even more so because of her lack of sleep tonight, and starving. She realizes she hasn't eaten since her few bites of breakfast this morning, and the visceral nightmare from last night has dissipated enough for Jamie to feel safe eating something besides gum.

When she pulls up to the library, Jamie buys another coffee and a sandwich, heading down to the basement with her bag of books where the computers sit, vacant. Because it's Halloween, it's mostly empty, blessedly so. The library staff knows her well by now, and so does the rest of Haddonfield at this point-but she avoids most social interaction at school and much more so here. It's been a long, long ten years-a long ten years of pushing friends away, everyone besides Rachel and Lindsey, who weren't even close to her age, so terrified that one day her uncle would come and she'd be the reason they'd all be dead like Tina and Sammy.

Jamie sighs, sitting at a table with her coffee and sandwich, spreading out her books and notes to start on her work for the day as she eats. She finds herself unable to read any of the words in her books, her notebooks, or her flashcards-finding herself simply staring ahead, at the wall and-past it. She sighs, pushes her notes aside to dig into her sandwich and finishes it quicker than she realizes, washing it down with coffee that's still too hot to drink and burns as it goes down.

Standing, Jamie heads to the phone book by the receptionist's desk, where the librarian sitting nearby simply spares her a glance before looking back at her computer monitor. Jamie flips through the book quickly, searching through the L's until she finds what she needs and jots it down quickly, heading to the computer to search for directions to print them out.

After paying the twenty cents for the paper to print, she boots the computer down, gathering her books and notebooks to shove into her bag and leave.

When she reemerges to the parking lot, the sun's already set and the streetlights illuminate the streets. Children in costumes run by her, cheering happily as their parents and babysitters linger behind, talking among each other. Jamie sighs wistfully, heading to her car to toss her bag in the backseat and sitting in the front herself.

Turning the key in the ignition, she locks her front door, pulling out of the lot to head to a place that's called to her for so many years-so many walks and drives to appointments, to school, to the store-like a telltale heart. The drive to Lampkin Lane takes just over ten minutes, and she parks her car a block away, careful not to park too close, and walks toward the big, old house where she and Michael had last laid eyes on each other. When she leans against the iron wrought gate-taking heed of the sign to keep out because of the hazardous waste-she looks up at the window where she'd brushed her hair and waited for him to find her. Where Judith sat, too, unknowing of her fate that awaited her outside, where Jamie stands now.

Jamie exhales, heading to the back of the house. She knows the ins and outs of this place better than anyone-the laundry chute, the closets, the attic. The attic. The gate to the backyard creaks loudly as she opens it, and a cold gust of air makes her shiver as the memory comes back to her, of the candles Michael had set out and the coffin over the bathtub, waiting for her. It'd been macabre but achingly thoughtful, she realizes now.

"Michael," she breathes out, shaking her head. "I don't understand this, Michael. Do you want me to come back here? Like you came back, for me? I don't get why I-can _feel you_ , again."

A crunch of what sounds like a twig breaking makes her nearly shriek. Under the streetlight nearby, Sheriff Meeker steps into view, grayed and aged, lips pressed together in a thin, displeased line. An exhale escapes in relief.

"Jamie," Meeker says, admonishing and gentle as he stays a fair distance away from the backyard, flashlight shining at her. "Come on, come out from there."

Jamie steps back onto the sidewalk, feeling her cheeks heat up from the shame of being caught.

"I'm sorry, Sheriff Meeker," she says, sincerely, relieved at once that he hadn't heard her. "I-It's been ten years. I wanted to visit, for myself, I guess. I was told exposure therapy is good."

Meeker huffs out a mirthless laugh. Jamie can smell the menthol cigarettes on his breath.

"I know, Jamie. I understand," he says, gentle but firm, "believe me, I do. Of anyone, I get it. But you know this is a foreclosed property. I don't want to call your parents about you being here, understand?"

Jamie nods quickly, tugging her bag closer to her form.

"Okay, sir," she says, stepping away from him, "thank you. I'm going home, now but-you have a good night."

Sheriff Meeker turns to watch her go to her car, parked a brief distance away, and watches as she pulls out and drives off. Sighing and shaking his head, he lights another cigarette, returning to his post in his cruiser across the street from the old Myers house.

Jamie watches him in her rearview mirror before taking a left turn down Lampkin Lane, until she gets to the freeway. She can barely make out the directions on the printed pages in the dark but follows them, driving until it starts to rain hard enough to hammer against her windshield and lightning strikes illuminate the highway ahead. She drives for about a half an hour until she reaches her destination, pulling up to the big colonial style house so isolated from the townships nearby and so ominously fitting for its owner. Parking her car, Jamie hurries to get out of the rain but ends up soaking wet from head to toe when she reaches the door, ringing the bell. It isn't spontaneous, considering the idea had been in her head all day, but she hopes it still isn't too rude of her to show up so announced.

Sam Loomis answers the door, surprised to see her waiting for him, soaked from the rain and features illuminated from the lightning strike.

"Jamie?" he asks. Another older man steps into view behind him, looking on curiously. Jamie looks from Loomis to the man, a little breathless, taking in his black coat and boots. It gives her deja vu in a way that frustrates her to try to remember, so she doesn't.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Loomis," she says, breathless, "I saw your name in the phonebook and I-after this morning, I've wanted to speak with you. I can leave if you're busy-I should've called ahead."

Before Loomis can respond, the older man behind him shakes his head, reaching for his coat.

"I was on my way out anyway, Sam," he says good-naturedly, stepping over the threshold and looking Jamie over. The seventeen-year-old shivers, feeling something well up within her that she cannot name, and watches him leave.

"Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Terrence," Sam says. "Drive safely."

His hand finds her elbow, gentle. "Come in, get out of the rain."

Jamie exhales in relief, stepping into the warmth of Loomis' home. The tall fireplace and the couch set seem so expensive, but so fitting for the doctor. The kitchen sits in view, full of updated appliances. Homely, but expensive and sleek. She looks over the art and decor that cover the sitting area then back at him.

He gestures to the couch and she nods, moving to sit. Before she can, Loomis hands her a warm towel, which she wraps around herself before sitting down.

"Thanks," she says awkwardly, wringing water out of her damp locks. "I'm sorry, Dr. Loomis-I really am. I just-I went to the house, today. His house. I feel like he's been-calling for me, and I don't know who else to go to who'd get it like you do."

Loomis sits in his armchair, adjacent to her, reaching for the scotch on the coffee table to pour himself another glass. He gestures to the empty glass that sits adjacent and Jamie shakes her head, barely uttering "I'm only seventeen," before Loomis pours her a tiny bit, pushing it toward her. Sniffing it out, she wrinkles her nose and takes a small sip, barely refraining from spitting the bitter-tasting liquor out before pushing the crystal glass back toward the doctor. The only other time she's drank was a swig of one of Rachel's margaritas, when she'd made them at a cookout, and it'd been nowhere near as bitter as  _that_.

Loomis chuckles.

"What is that?"

"Johnnie Walker Blue," Loomis says, sipping at his own glass, "scotch. I thought you'd like to burn the midnight oil. I do have a kettle going for tea, which may be more suitable for your taste."

Jamie shakes her head, unable to keep from smiling.

Loomis goes on, more serious now.

"I went to visit Michael today myself, after you asked me about him," he says, soft over the crackle of the fireplace beside them, "and the only thing that makes him react at all is you, Jamie. I don't presume to understand it, either."

Jamie sighs, feeling a little hopeless.

But Loomis goes on.

"Plato was one of the first in history to come up with the idea of soulmates," Loomis says. Jamie blinks in surprise. "In  _The Symposium_ , Aristophanes states that humans were originally born with four arms, four legs, and two sets of separate heads. Since people were split in half, individuals long for the person who completes them."

Jamie raises an eyebrow. "Michael and I-you think we're soulmates? You really think that?"

Loomis is silent for a moment.

"It could be an explanation. I started believing the incredulous upon meeting your uncle, Jamie. And that concept isn't inherently romantic or sexual-it could simply be a natural affinity, a shared bond, as you two have," he sips at his scotch once more. "It's a possibility, not set in stone, and it's one of the only concrete theories I have about it."

Jamie laughs, leaning back against the sofa and looking into the fire, face going warm with it. Her teeth dig into her lower lip as she looks down at her palms. When the kettle starts whistling, Loomis ambles to remove it, returning with a mug of tea. She offers a small smile, taking it between her palms.

Finally, after such a pregnant pause, Jamie speaks.

"Do you think-do you think that means, we're the same? That I'm like him? Look what I did to my foster mother," she feels her eyes stinging inexplicably again, for what feels like the umpteenth time today, but this time she keeps the tears back. "Rachel and my mother and my therapist don't understand-that I'm cursed, like him."

Loomis shakes his head.

"Jamie, look at me, please."

She looks at him, wide-eyed. His gaze is as intense as she remembers it, from those years ago, when he'd been on the cusp of desperation and going so far as to use her as bait.

She understands him more now than she ever had.

"You are not him," Loomis reassures her, "you're a good person. You're making your own fate, aren't you? Your own life?"

Jamie nods.

"I am but-I know we're tied. Fate-we're tied together. It's like I can't escape," she blows gently at the steaming hot tea, smelling the chamomile and setting it down. "I know once I turn eighteen-my mother already told me, I'm his legal ward. His next of kin."

"How do you feel about it?"

She shrugs.

"I'm the only family he has left, Dr. Loomis," she says softly, sighing. "I know, you don't get it, I don't expect you would-but as horrible as I know he is, I saw something else in him in that attic. In my dreams. Maybe if-I don't know. I don't think I can just leave him to the state, when I turn eighteen in two months."

"That's more understandable than you'd think, Jamie. As much as I know, and I think you know, his true nature. He destroys like a hurricane does. There's no escaping the danger of his path. The only way to stop him is permanent."

She shivers at the finality of the statement.

"So you think-he'll get out? That he'll come after me, after you?"

Loomis nods.

"As you are tied to Michael, so am I. As long as you are around, he will follow, and he'll bring hell with him. As long as he's around, I will follow him, too, until he's gone permanently," Loomis says gravely. "But, again, just because you two have an affinity for each other does not mean you are the same."

Jamie looks over the doctor's worn features, feeling an odd connection that she hasn't felt since that moment in the attic, feeling something like kinship. Understanding. She feels less afraid than she had earlier, more reassured than afraid. Validated in her feelings about Michael, about their bond, about her own nature as a human being.

She sighs.

"I think we'll have to disagree on that-him being pure evil, like you've said. I want to reach him."

Loomis smiles sadly, knowingly, pouring himself another glass of scotch.

The clock tower in the dining room dings three times, signaling it's midnight already.

Loomis holds up his glass.

"To the boogeyman, then?" it's wry, and gets a smile from Jamie as she gently taps her mug of tug against his.

"To the boogeyman."


	4. The Shape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I have changed the date of the previous chapter to October 19th instead of October 31st. Changes will be reflected within this chapter.

"I saw him. The Shape."  _  
_\- Laurie Strode, _Halloween_  (2018)

* * *

It's one-thirty on the dot when Jamie slips back into her house, soaking wet from head to toe from the downpour. Thunder crashes loudly when she shuts the door behind her gently, greeted immediately by Coco sniffing at her only to jerk away when she gets wet. Jamie takes off her boots and coat, wringing water out of her dark locks over the welcome mat by the door.

A light in the living room turns on, earning a gasp of surprise.

"Jamie," Rachel Carruthers says softly, over the sound of rain hitting the house. Jamie exhales, her first instinct to prepare for some kind of fight, then to plead her not to tell their parents she was out so late.

"I'm not mad," Rachel says quickly, standing to greet her. Even now, she stands a few inches above Jamie, the girl petite unlike her own biological mother. "And I don't plan to tell mom and dad. If anything, they'd be glad to know you actually went out tonight."

They wouldn't be so happy if it was to visit Sam Loomis, Jamie knows that for sure, so she decidedly doesn't mention that.

"Good," Jamie says awkwardly. Rachel sighs.

"Come on, you're gonna catch a cold, all soaking wet like that."

Rachel hands her a worn shirt and pants, which Jamie changes into in the bathroom. Darlene must have thought to leave out a towel on the heater because it's warm when Jamie dries her hair with it. She sees herself in the mirror-dark mussed hair when she takes it out of her braid, skin flushed from cold rain, and dark eyes looking back at her. The brush rakes against her scalp as she gets most of the knots out of her wet hair, earning a few winces. She hears the static of the TV as Rachel flips through the channels for something to watch.

Clad in her robe and her dry clothes, Jamie comes back out to the living room, finding Coco sitting next to Rachel on the couch. Lightning illuminates the living room when Jamie sits on the chair adjacent to the sofa, where they sit in silence for a few minutes before Rachel speaks again, tentative.

"I'm sorry, for this morning," Rachel says. "I didn't mean to-"

"It's okay," Jamie interjects, shaking her head. "I wasn't being fair to you, Rachel. We both survived him. I just-haven't-all the progress I've made since then, I've been feeling like I've been regressing somehow lately. I don't know."

She curls her knees to her chest, eyes still focused on the television ahead. Rachel reaches for her hand, leaning over the couch, and Jamie spares a glance at her.

"What do you mean?"

"I've been dreaming about him. Like I used to."

"It's been almost ten years," Rachel says softly, "don't you think that's a pretty significant anniversary, Jamie? You've lived past him for ten years. We both have. That's what my therapist tells me, anyway."

Jamie offers a small smile, turning her hand over in Rachel's to hold in her own, small thumb tracing over the lines of her palm. "I guess you're right. I don't know."

"I dream about him too, you know. Sometimes. How he looked at us, from that stairwell when we first saw him, then when we ran him over with the truck. It feels like it was all so long ago, but sometimes I feel like it was yesterday,"

"Me too, Rachel."

"So there's nothing wrong with you, Jamie, especially because he's your uncle. It's hard to forget that. But he's not your family, not like your mom was and not like mom, dad, and I are."

Jamie nods.

"I know, Rachel. I love you and mom and dad. But I still can't help but just-think about him sometimes. I think about how he's doing. I think about what he's feeling, maybe," Jamie shrugs, tentative about her words because of the reaction they could bring, especially from Rachel. Dr. Loomis had been a little more receptive to it, even encouraging, but Jamie knows that that feedback hadn't come from the most mainstream of sources, so to speak. So, she gauges Rachel for a reaction that she may possibly dread.

Instead, she's met with only an understanding gaze, and Rachel squeezing her hand. It makes her heart jump, and a smile spread over her features.

"That makes you a good person, Jamie. I can't say I'd feel the same but, I'm not in your position. I wouldn't know, you know."

Jamie smiles wider.

"Thanks, Rachel," she sighs, "I'm just tired of feeling these different things, and I feel like therapy may not be helping as much. Or I'm just afraid to tell her."

"Why? That's what she's there for."

"I know. It's just my natural instinct, I guess."

The two sisters sit in silence watching a late night televangelist preach to an enthusiastic crowd before Rachel stands. Coco jumps off the couch with her, trotting to the kitchen. Rachel offers a hand.

"I was thinking of making some hot cocoa before I went to bed, figured it'd be great for this cold night. Especially after you've been out in the rain."

Jamie's smile grows wider as she reaches for Rachel's hand, pulling herself up to her feet.

"That sounds pretty good. As long as we can use the marshmallows and chocolate chips."

"Of course. As long as you don't tell mom."

A laugh leaves the younger girl's mouth as the two head into the kitchen to prepare their snacks. The rain pours outside, thunder booming loud. Coco sits in the kitchen window and stares into the eyes of a man outside their front lawn dressed in black, whose aged features illuminate in a clash of lightning. The cat runs at the sight of him, bounding up the stairs, though neither Jamie nor Rachel notice over their chatter.

* * *

The heavy door leading to his cell opens and closes loudly, though this time only Wynn enters, the men adorned in cloaks that usually follow him long gone. The Shape isn't roused by this disturbance, simply staring at the wall ahead, past it. Inhumanly patient. Wynn exhales as thunder rumbles loud enough to be heard even in the belly of the asylum, where Michael's dingy cell sits among the line of others deemed so undesirable for society that they were just stowed away to waste down here.

Not Michael, though. Not Michael. He isn't like the others.

"Hello, Michael," he says cordially. As usual, there's no response. Nothing, not in ten years-nothing besides Jamie Lloyd. His lips curl in pleasure at the thought.

"Your niece, Jamie-she's not so little anymore, Michael. I saw her around a week ago, visiting Dr. Loomis. They must have had a reunion, like you and Sam had earlier today. Do you wonder when she'll come see you, Michael?"

An exhale escapes from the Shape, low and breathy. Wynn goes on, seemingly undeterred.

"I'm arranging for it-and you know, she is the same age as your sister. As  _Cynthia_. It'll be perfect, don't you think?" he asks, "However, unlike when we spoke last week, we have a better surprise for you. Something more suitable to you."

As if on cue, wailing from down the hall begins, echoing off its corridors and prompting the other inmates in the block to begin screaming like banshees from within their cells, delirious and almost deafening. The heavy metal door opens and slams shut, revealing a young girl with dark hair and bangs and a fresh pair of black eyes, to boot. Michael's head cocks upon seeing her in his peripheral vision, bearing such a striking resemblance to his niece but too young to be her current age now.

Wynn's insidious smile spreads, which Michael doesn't fail to notice in the peripheral vision of his good eye.

The girl weeps while Wynn touches over her hair. Michael's fingers twitch in his lap.

"She's from the juvenile ward. No one's really noticed her missing-doesn't have any family left of her own, actually. Besides a sister who abandoned her here and moved away," Wynn practically hums, honey-sweet, "does that sound familiar at all, Michael?"

The cloaked figures throw the girl onto the floor by her hair. She screams as her knees scrape against concrete, though it's to no avail, only serving to echo off the poor acoustics of the cell. Michael stands, not facing any of the others but staring at the girl, who gasps for air over hiccups and claws at the concrete floor. Wynn watches all of them-the girl, deaf and emotionally disturbed, as her doctors called her, has no family and will be missed by no one. It's perfect, for what he has planned-for what he's always had planned, ever since Michael ended up under his vigilant watch at the tender age of six, those doe eyes concealing a strength within that he and his group had been searching for for so long.

A smirk unfurls wide over his features, wolfish and with teeth, and he says, "I'll leave you to it this time, Michael. Don't hold back."

When his disciples try to follow him outside of the room, Wynn shakes his head and holds up a hand, signalling them to stay as he exits. The moment the door closes, it's instantaneous-the screaming, the sound of a body hitting the door. More bangs and screams rouse the other patients in their cells before the silence that follows is enough to make Wynn's ears ring. With a few of the other disciples stationed by him, he enters Michael's cell to find blood everywhere-coating the room in pools of it. All over Michael's bed, all over the floor and painting the walls like a macabre mural. Wynn's eyes widen at the sight-both of his disciples dead, one with his throat ripped out and the other with her neck twisted so her head's on the other side of her body. Under the bed, the girl shakes, covering her dark sleek head with her hands and looking as pale as a ghost but otherwise unscathed. Wynn's gaze meets Michael's, who stands about a head above him and tilts his head.

Wynn hisses, and one of the hooded figures in the hallway steps forward, holding a folded mechanic's uniform and the unmistakable stark white of the mask, frayed as it is.

"We called in a favor from the attorney general's office, Michael," Wynn almost whispers. The Shape reaches out to take the mask from him, the coveralls, fingers trailing almost reverently over the aged latex. "It's for you. It's all for you and your niece-a birthday gift, if you will. I know how much you enjoy this time of year."

The iron door opens, creaking loudly. Wynn steps out of the room, turning back to the other one last time.

"Happy hunting."

The Shape glances down at the mask between his fingers, its large eye-holes staring up at him. It stretches a little differently than it had when he first wore it, but it fits seamlessly, like a second skin. He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror when he tucks the mask into the collar of the coveralls.

The Shape is complete.

* * *

For a long time, Jamie can't move when she awakens-she has no idea of the time of night, just knows that it's so early it's still dark and she hadn't fallen asleep too long ago in the first place. Then she feels like she's choking, wheezing and coughing from deep in her chest as she thrashes, finally able to move, gripping and clawing at her throat to rip it open and get some air in her lungs-an incredulous idea but more effective than not bleeding at all.

Then she sees him, like a specter, coveralls covered in blood standing at the end of her bed, stark white features almost blue from the light from her window. Spots cover her vision but still, she can't move, can't get away from him and can't get any air in her throat no matter how hard she wheezes. Lightning flashes over him, illuminating him bright, the knife covered in blood in his hand looking black in the moonlight.

He steps toward her. Jamie inhales, finally-a gulp of air, and he steps toward her once more, and she licks her lips and tries to scream but can't find her voice once more. Hears Darlene Carruthers' screams for help as if she's underwear from how distant and far away it is, as she stabs and stabs away at her in the bathtub. Michael stares back at her, getting so close a blood-coated hand knots in her pretty quilt, raising the knife above her to strike.

And that's when Jamie really wakes up-her breath catching up to her now, screams silenced from the sharp intakes of breath. She scrambles to curl herself up against her headboard, turning her light on to find no boogeyman in sight, only Coco thoroughly scared by her sudden movements and sounds from where she sits at the foot of her bed.

Sighing, heart still racing, Jamie climbs out of bed and stumbles to the bathroom to step into the shower, standing under the hot jets of water for a long time before she steps out and gets dressed, finding the landline in her bedroom when her hair is still wet. When she holds the phone against her ear, she listens to it ring for a few times after she dials, hoping that someone will answer who won't outright hang up on her.

"Hello?" a young man on the other end answers. Jamie exhales in relief.

"Billy?"

"Hey, Jamie," the boy gets a little more quiet. The stutter that'd inflicted his dialect when they were younger seemingly gone, for the most part. "You're up early."

"I know," she says, pushing her small fingers through her cat's fur as she leans against her dresser, sighing softly. "I knew you'd be awake-sorry if you were trying to sleep, I know you work late at the construction site-"

"No, it's fine, Jamie," Billy insists. "I'm all wired up on energy drinks so I should be up for a few more hours. What's up?"

"I'm in the mood for some pancakes and eggs or something, and I was just calling on the off-chance you're free and can get out of your parents' hair," she says, "I can swing by and pick you up."

"I know you love that new car of yours."

Jamie laughs. "I do love it. Is that a yes?"

"Yeah, I can do it now, if you want, before I sleep. Could go for something to eat and my parents don't have much here."

Jamie smiles brightly. "Good. I can come swing by and get you, and I'll be there in ten or twenty?"

"Yeah, of course. I'll see you then, Jamie."

Jame feels a smile spread over her features when she hangs up the phone. Billy Hill, her only light at the end of the tunnel when she was seven, proves to be the same at seventeen. While she has Rachel and Lindsey to keep her company, the times she periodically gets to see Billy is when she actually feels like she has friends her own age. Otherwise, despite her kind nature, Jamie keeps to herself when it comes to her peers besides acquaintances out of necessity at school.

With that thought in mind, she wrings more water out of dark hair until it's damp enough to put some product in it, leaving it in loose waves at her shoulders, and pulls on a purple cardigan and blue jeans once she removes her robe. Upon reaching the door, she pulls on a pair of her tennis shoes, a peacoat, and heads to her car that's parked in the driveway.

The drive to Billy's house on the outskirts of Haddonfield takes less than ten minutes. It's too early for any real traffic to begin, which makes her feel comfortable enough to look at the Tower Farm that sits adjacent to Billy's house. It's in the distance, and she can barely make it out in the dark and over the brightness of her headlights before her, but she would never mistake the long winding dirt road there, leading to the woods where Michael had pursued her ten years ago.

It doesn't matter how much construction they do, to build over the destruction her uncle caused. It'll still be the same. It'll still have been marked, by him, and that includes her own soul, too. What Dr. Loomis had said about them being soulmates-it comes to mind immediately, leaving her even more introspective over the static of her car stereo. The idea of sharing any part of soul with  _him_  seems fitting, but it leaves her with chills, now that she lets herself think of it more.

When she pulls up to Billy's house, she sits in his driveway, deciding not to honk the horn lest his parents or brother awaken. The boy-more like man, now-comes down the steps, clad in a flannel shirt and paint-stained blue jeans, a big sports bag hung over his shoulders with a Chicago Cubs cap to match.

"Hey, you," Jamie says when he opens the passenger side door. Upon sitting, Billy wraps his arms around her, broad and work-worn from his job at the site. Jamie laughs, returning the embrace before withdrawing.

She backs out of the driveway and down the road, away from the farm in the distance that looms over her like an albatross.

"It's really good to see you. I've been so busy with work and everything, I just haven't been able to."

Jamie can smell the shampoo from his shower, and knows that he must have just got home, maybe the instant she called.

"It's okay, Billy, I've been pretty busy myself, too."

"How's school going?"

"It's okay. I've been getting pretty high marks and I'm looking to transfer to Haddonfield University next fall. They've got a great speech pathology program."

"You still want to go to school for that?" Billy asks, glancing over at Jamie as she looks at him, the two of them stopped at a red light while a freight train passes by before them.

"I do. I know how to speak sign language from when I couldn't talk for that while. I tutor deaf students now, too-it's work that makes me feel good."

A long moment goes by before the freight train finally passes, and Jamie carries on driving, taking the exit to her favorite diner in downtown Haddonfield.

"You're smart. I know you're going to do great."

"You're pretty smart too," Jamie says, turning the corner to the diner. "How's work been?"

"It's good. I think I'm gonna get promoted."

"Oh yeah? That's awesome."

"That's what my boss says, anyway."

Jamie parks the car in the lot of the diner, taking the key from the ignition and locking her doors before stepping out. She waits for Billy before heading into the diner itself, where he opens the entrance door for her as she smiles at him. The diner's decorated as if straight out of the fifties-bubblegum pink, baby blue, and white tile covering the walls and floor, a jukebox playing in the corner, with waitresses wearing old-school uniforms. They sit themselves and wait for their waitress, combing through options in velvet-clad menus. Jamie chances a glance out of the big frost-tinted window beside their booth, looking at the parking lot and the woods beyond, the world so dark the streetlights still brightly illuminate the white and yellow lines of the road and lot.

That's when she sees it-the stark white face, illuminated by the lights too with its dark holes for eyes still shrouded in shadow, standing under a streetlight. Her breath catches in her throat and her eyes widen as The Shape stares back at her.

"Jamie?"

Jamie tears her gaze away from the window and looks at Billy.

"Are you okay?"

She looks at the world outside once more and finds no one there, standing under the streetlight. Disappeared into thin air. It does nothing to help her racing heart but she calms a little, not teetering on hyperventilating so much anymore.

"I'm okay, Billy," she offers a smile. Their waitress smiles a bright greeting at them both, interrupting their conversation to take their orders. When she leaves, Jamie's attention returns to Billy.

"I just-" a loud noise from the kitchen makes her jump before she can finish the sentence, "it's so close to being ten years since I last saw him. So I think I see him everywhere."

She remembers what Loomis had told her-that she and Michael, and Loomis too, are forever linked to each other. That Michael will escape some day. She would've heard about it on the radio, on the news-from any of the patrons in the diner-and her sense of security is tentative more so than sure, because she knows Michael better than anyone in the world.

"That's normal. I had so many nightmares, after he chased us with that car, y'know."

Jamie nods as their waitress sets their food on the table, along with a pot of coffee. She pours a mug for herself before Billy's hand covers hers.

"It's okay, Jamie," Billy says, softly, "he's never getting out. Ever. You know that and I know that."

She smiles wider, though it doesn't quite reach her eyes, hand turning to hold Billy's.

"You're right."

They release each other's hands. Billy offers a smile.

"Let's eat, then."

Jamie cuts into her pancakes, unable to keep her eyes from the window, where she doesn't notice The Shape enter a Smith's Grove issued station wagon and drive off.

* * *

The day goes on without incident-she leaves breakfast with Billy to head to her first class of the day, finding out from a note on the door for her second lecture that it's cancelled. Jamie's student that she tutors in the afternoon after classes end for the day cancels last-minute too, leaving her with only a worksheet from her physics course to do and an entire weekend ahead of her. Upon finishing it, she returns home, anxious to find something to keep her productive. Coco meows at her when she enters the foyer, rubbing against her legs in delight to see that she's home. Jamie slides off her coat, picking up the cat to hold her against her, sighing and kissing her on the head. In response, Coco purrs loudly, rubbing her cheek against Jamie's and sniffing her. The tickle of her whiskers makes Jamie laugh before she puts the cat down, locking the door behind her and heading into the kitchen to put on a pot of tea and grab a snack.

She fills the kettle with water, leaving it on the stove to heat up before heating up some of last night's baked ziti in the microwave. With her plate of food, she sits on the couch, unhappily alone with her food and her thoughts. No television program is stimulating enough, and the best thing she can find while flipping through the channels is a local program about a haunted house decorating contest. Innocent enough.

_If only they knew what a real haunted house looked like._

She's sipping at a mug of tea when the doorbell rings, making her and Coco jump from where the cat sits in her lap. Setting the mug down, Jame heads to the door, peering into the window beside it to see who it is instead of even bothering to go on her toes to look at the window above. Lindsey Wallace, grinning widely and waving at her through the window. Jamie swings open the door immediately, greeted with the older woman's arms wrapped around her. Jamie laughs in delight, returning the embrace, and beams when Lindsey's lips press against her forehead. It's easy, when she's so much taller than her.

"I haven't seen you in so long, kiddo!"

"Sorry, Linds. I've been busy with school and work and all that crap."

"I've heard. I heard you're getting straight A's, huh? You've always been such a bright girl, Jamie," Lindsey pulls her bag closer to her form, heading further into the big house to look around. "Rachel told me to meet up with her here, because we're going shopping for costumes for Ray Nelson's basement party tomorrow night."

"Oh yeah?"

Already, Jamie doesn't like where this conversation is headed.

Lindsey prods her in the rib-cage, gently.

"Why don't you come with us, Jamie? Costume shopping, and then to the party itself. I know there's gonna be some cute boys your age there."

"I really don't know, Linds… I do have a lot of work to do..."

As Jamie had expected, that excuse doesn't fly over well. Lindsey huffs out a breath, petulant, shaking her head.

"Oh, come on, Jamie. You have to live a little!" Lindsay's manicured fingers find their way to Jamie's slight shoulders, and she continues, a little more serious, "believe me, for a really long time, after seeing his face, I was scared too. I was too scared to sleep, even, and Tommy and I never even got  _that_  close to him. But you have to live your life for you, and that includes getting maybe a  _little_ tipsy with me and your sister and having the time of our lives."

Jamie sighs, offering a small, relenting smile.

"Okay, fine," Jamie agrees. Lindsay grins brightly, but Jamie interjects, quickly, "you guys just can't run off and leave me, though. I've never really been to a party like this before."

"Oh, sweetheart, we'd never leave you by yourself. You're a baby."

Jamie shoves at her, shaking her head and laughing. The sound of Rachel's car stereo almost shakes the house as she pulls up, playing some R&B song that's been haunting the local stations like crazy, and the blonde herself trots up the steps, wearing a wrap dress with her hair teased and kitten heels, fresh from a day at the office.

"Hey, you're here early?" Rachel looks between the both of them. Lindsey wraps an arm around Jamie's shoulder, piping in before Jamie gets a chance.

"Jamie here, is going costume shopping with us now," Lindsey says, "and she agreed to come to the party tomorrow night."

"Oh, Miss Mother Teresa is actually going out?"

Jamie shoves at the two of them, laughing along with them.

"Yeah, I've been convinced," Jamie says. "You're both pieces of work, y'know that?"

"Yeah, that's why you love us," Rachel says softly, flashing her a smile. Jamie shakes her head and Lindsey releases Jamie, gesturing widely with her arms.

"I brought my mom's Hummer, can you believe she let me take it?" Lindsey asks, going on quickly. "Anyways, we can cruise to Vincent's in fucking style and hey, maybe grab some sushi after? I'm starving."

"Sounds good to me," Jamie says, reaching for her own purse on its hanger. "I haven't even dressed up as anything for-well, not since I was seven. I don't even think I've left the house on Halloween since then."

The three of them walk down the stairs, Rachel trailing behind only to lock the door behind them. The dead leaves from the trees that surround the front lawn crunch under Jamie's feet as they head to Lindsey's big van, Jamie sitting in the backseat while Rachel and Lindsey take the front.

"Well, I'm really glad you're going out of your comfort zone, Jamie," Rachel says, continuing the conversation as Lindsey pulls out of the long driveway and down the street. Jamie looks out the window, looking at the Halloween decorations that cover the big Victorian houses down the block. Ghost decals, carved pumpkins, fallen leaves-ten years after Michael Myers terrorized them all, and Haddonfield seems to have finally tried to move on, the youngest of its residents fully embracing Halloween once more whether those who remember the most like it or not. Jamie remembers too well, but she thinks it may be time for her to try to move on too.

Her psychiatrist talks about this all the time, and she wonders what she'll think when she reports back with this tale of the greatest exposure therapy she could possibly undertake, short of going into the Myers house itself.

"Yeah," Jamie says, getting herself out of her trance as the enter downtown, with its mom-and-pop shops and the typical influx of university students from the nearby Haddonfield University and Haddonfield Community College, with a few high school students mingled therein. She watches a few of them run by the car, happy and immersed in conversation with one another, and looks back at the two women in the front seats of the car. "I think it'll be good for me, to give this a try. I think I'm ready."

"I agree," Rachel says, "and so do mom and dad. You need this."

"Here we are," Lindsey interrupts, pulling into a parking spot in front of Vincent's. While she pays the meter, Rachel and Jamie head into the store, the two of them making a beeline toward the Halloween costumes rack. Vincent's, even after all of these years, still has the best Halloween costumes in the entire county, locally made and high-quality. Lindsey's heeled boots clack against the tiled floor of the drug store, catching up quickly to her friends in the other aisle.

"Jamie's so lucky she's so small."

"That's because she's barely five feet tall and she's got such a high metabolism," Rachel mutters, looking through one of the racks while Jamie looks through another. "That's why she's so skinny. Not to mention, she eats like a canary."

Lindsey pouts.

"You look awesome, Lindsey," Jamie interjects. "Don't compare yourself so much to me. You look like a woman-I look like I could still be thirteen."

That earns a laugh from Rachel and Lindsey alike, along with Jamie, who only interrupts when she finds her costume-an angel costume, pretty and white and sparkling, not to mention the least revealing of the other women's costumes though not by much.

"That's so gorgeous, Jamie. I can do your hair and makeup with it, too."

Rachel looks over the costume, then back down at Jamie.

"Can you go try it on? We should make sure it's not too big."

Jamie rolls her eyes playfully, tucking the costume under her arm and heading toward the direction of the changing rooms, calling out, "right on top of that, mom."

She enters one of the stalls, Rachel and Lindsey waiting outside of them, and changes. The costume fits as expected-a little too big in the waist area and definitely too long on her short legs. Other than that, she loves it, and can't help but see herself in it tomorrow.

Then she sees him, looking back at her from behind her, still so much taller than her with his head cocked in that inquisitive way of his. This time, she manages to scream, and Lindsey and Rachel are there in an instant, opening the changing room door to find her there alone.

"What happened?" Rachel says, giving Jamie and immediate sense of deja vu. Unlike when she was a child, Jamie doesn't cry, simply shaking all over and holding herself tight.

"I-I thought I saw him."

"He's not here. He's in Smith's Grove, and you're safe here."

Lindsey hugs onto her friend. Jamie sighs, blinking back tears as she wraps her arms around Lindsey in return.

"You look gorgeous in that costume, though," Lindsey offers, pushing Jamie's hair back. "I can't wait to see you in it tomorrow, when we're all made up. Why don't you get dressed, we'll pay for that, and then we can go out to eat, huh?"

Jamie nods, offering a feeble smile, and says, "okay, we can do that."

* * *

Blood covers the freshly waxed wood floor of the big house as screams fill the house. Marion Chambers lies, covered in blood and clawing with half-gone nails at the carpet to get away from the Shape, who advances quickly on her. Dr. Loomis himself lies in bed, clutching his chest in pain as it feels like his heart is possibly closing in on itself, wheezing loudly as breath fails him.

The Shape picks Marion Chambers up once more, earning a scream.

"Michael…" Dr. Loomis says, pleading hoarsely. He can't move-not even to the .380 in his bedside table, "take me, Michael. Don't-don't hurt these people, Michael. Leave Jamie alone! Stop!"

The Shape's head cocks, inquisitive-perhaps in amusement, if he was capable of feeling such things. Marion cries, grasping at his jumpsuit to no avail. He simply pins her against the wall, tearing open the back of her blouse. She gasps, choking on blood now, as his knife connects with her skin. This hadn't been what Loomis had been anticipating waking up from his afternoon nap to, and it'd been such a shock to find those eyes staring down at him that his chest had immediately begun contracting, right arm tingling white hot in all of the tell-tale signs of cardiac arrest. Of course, Michael had been taken advantage of the predicament, clearly amusing himself with chasing Marion Chambers like a cat playing with its prey before they ended up back in Loomis' bedroom, making their way full-circle.

Now, he carves each letter at a time while Loomis watches, aghast.

N-I-E-C-E.

By the C, Loomis feels his eyes going heavy, the black spots cloud his vision. Michael, as if bored, breaks Marion Chambers' neck with a simple twist, looking over Loomis' convulsing body as their gazes lock. He remembers the promise Loomis had made to him, in his cell-remembers it clearly, and feels something like pleasure at the sight of him in pain. He decidedly doesn't kill him, or make any move to let him die-he instead simply passes over him.

The old man would survive this heart attack, just like the last, and they would be face-to-face once more.

The phone starts to ring for a long time on the other end of the house. When there's no answer, the answering machine finally picks up the voicemail.

" _Dr. Loomis,"_ Jamie's voice says over the phone, surrounded by gusts of wind.  _"I'm calling you from an outside line, at a payphone. I just-I wanted to tell you that I've been seeing him everywhere, and I don't know if it's my imagination or if it's just me. I called Smith's Grove three times today, and each time they assured me he's still on their patient roster. I don't know what to do. I know we just talked last week, but, I'd still love to meet with you again…"_

The Shape's head cocks once more, heading toward the sound of little Jamie's voice until he's staring down at the answering machine.

With one bloodied hand, Michael picks up the phone.

"Dr. Loomis?" Jamie says. "Is that you there?"

The only response she gets is heavy breathing.

"Dr. Loomis?"

After a long moment, Jamie sighs in distress, hanging up. Michael sets the phone down as well, heading to the kitchen to search through the drawer to find what he needs the most. A knife, the biggest in the drawer, clean and shiny and all stainless steel. He looks at his reflection on the blade, distorted as it is, before heading out of the back door to where he parked the car, heading into the night.

He could never forget where Jamie lives-but, most of all, he remembers fresh from this morning that Billy Hill lives so close to the woods where he almost killed little Jamie once and for all.

It seems the best place to carry on.


End file.
